She Left On A Thursday
by AntiThesis101
Summary: She left on a Thursday. The word ‘home’ stumbles on their lips and never makes it out. AU,KK.
1. Him

Disclaimer: I revolve around everything Rurouni Kenshin, but unfortunately, Rurouni Kenshin revolves around Nobuhiro Watsuki, Sony, etc. DO NOT OWN. DO NOT SUE.

A/N: *crawls out from under a rock* Hey there! So, glad that you're here, reading my very first piece of fanfiction! It's going to be drabble-ish, so it might _sometimes_ be in chronological order, though you shouldn't bet any money on that. It might be confusing at first, but think of it as a jigsaw – I'll be giving you the bits and pieces to form the big picture. I'm also experimenting with different writing styles, so some chapters might be a tad incongruous. If all that's okay with you, then onwards!

**She Left On A Thursday**

**1. Him**

She left on a Thursday.

Which wasn't surprising, really, considering that she had always hated Thursdays.

---

"It's not that I hate the word or anything," she said as she licked the melting ice cream cone. "It's just that Thursdays are so close to the weekend that you can almost _taste_ the freedom, but there's always Friday to bar you from sweet salvation. And then you think to yourself, "Hey, maybe this Friday would be okay!

"But you're wrong; always utterly, completely wrong."

He didn't say anything then. Just sat there and watched, filing this information away in the corner of his mind that was dedicated to memorizing every little thing about her.

From that day forward, he always made sure that there was at least a pint of ice cream in the fridge on Thursdays.

_Preferably Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough._

---

He was not sure why she left. It was raining when she did, which was bitterly ironic. She loved the rain, but hated Thursdays. Now, maybe she hated him as well.

She cried then, and he cried too. But those tears never made it out, and instead ran through his veins and arteries, clogging up everything, and he could feel his heart suffocating, pulsating like that of a drowning man. Maybe if he had tears streaming down his face, if he had shown the pain he felt seeing her like that, maybe, just maybe, she would stay.

But what are a million "what ifs" worth? Nothing, because in the end, he shed no tears and displayed no pain on his face. It was part of his training and was drilled into him by countless life experiences, although he never told her that.

_Never reveal your weaknesses._

**---**

"Sheesh! Stop being such a cold fish! Smile for me, come on!" She held a camera, and insisted on taking a photo of him, since he was so "photogenic". He tried to smile, he really did, but all that came out was a sort of grimace. She returned the grimace and lowered the camera, disappointment shining in her sapphire eyes.

Then, all of a sudden, it started raining. There was thunder, lightning, booms and bangs clashing together in a spectacular sound-and-light show. It was probably hazardous to be out in the open, but she didn't care. Instead, she shrieked in delight, tilting her face upward, letting the raindrops fall on her smooth forehead, flushed cheeks and full lips.

She turned to him, and smiled one of the most beautiful smiles he had ever seen. His heart fluttered, and although it sounded clichéd even to his own ears, he thought that he might have just died and gone to heaven.

"This," she said, her voice full of that infectious joy which she carried in bucketfuls, "is feeling alive. To feel every individual raindrop fall on your skin, to feel that stinging sensation travel along your nerves to every inch of your body, to know that you're not numb to everything after all… _this_ is feeling alive."

Somewhere along this, she had closed the distance between them, and her face was a mere few inches from his. She stared into his eyes, searching for something, a spark of life within those molten depths, perhaps. "Do you feel alive?"

He turned his face towards the heavens, and felt his skin tingling from the barrage of raindrops.

He looked at her, at her miserably wet appearance, at the bright periwinkle blue eyes that contrasted so greatly with the concrete-grey sky, and replied, "Yes."

Before he knew it, there was a flash and he was momentarily stunned. She emerged from behind her camera, grinning triumphantly. "See? I knew I could get you to smile!"

She pulled him down to sit with her, ignoring the wet grass and laying her head on his lap as she soaked in the rain and tranquility with closed eyes.

He looked down at her, and smiled again.

_Only for you._

---

He had always tried to predict her moods, her actions, but all those predictions always seemed to fall flat at the most crucial moments, when she would do something unexpected, throwing him off completely. But he didn't mind, that was one of the reasons why he liked being with her in the first place. He liked the surprises – having gone far too long without them – such that every single start or semi-flinch that she got out of him was never unappreciated.

So he stood there, staring at the swinging front door, wondering how she managed to surprise him, yet again. Open and close and open and close and open again, the door was swinging, and he heard her footsteps echoing along the corridors, together with the soft pitter patter of teardrops. _Her_ tears, a voice in his mind whispered. He hated it when she cried, although he never told her that.

_Your tears are far too precious._

---

It was snowing.

A girl was crying.

A girl, sitting on a swing in the middle of a park at midnight, was crying.

Normally, he would have simply turned around and walked away – he had never liked the sight of crying women – but something about this girl crying made him stop dead in his tracks.

Maybe it was the fact that despite the constant sniffling and blotchy cheeks, she looked beautiful. Maybe it was the fact that she was trying so hard to stifle her sobs, choking on them from time to time like a kicked puppy trying to be brave in front of its master. Maybe it was the fact that it was snowing, and snow tended to mess with his mind a little.

Whatever it was, he found himself kneeling in front of her, untying his scarf and putting it around her neck instead.

She looked up, shocked, and he was shocked as well – by the endless blue eyes that stared back; infinitely, impossibly blue eyes that seemed to proclaim _This Is Forever _with its million shades and wondrous depth.

A slight sniffle on her part, and then, "Thank you."

A small smile on his part, and then, "You're welcome."

A moment passed, and he pulled himself up and away from those eternal blue eyes lest he drown in them. He then turned around and walked away, like he was supposed to do, like nothing happened.

_But _she _happened._

---

She had never explained why she cried that day, and he had never bothered to ask. Maybe he should have, he thought, as he heard the elevator doors close with a sense of finality. Maybe if he had asked her what was wrong then, he could have prevented it from happening now.

He was still standing there, deciding, when the door made his decision for him. It swung shut, and all that he could see were the tearstains on his carpet, the hard unyielding wooden door, and her eyes.

A hand reached out towards the doorknob, only to falter, and fall by his side once more. He was always one step behind, always one second too late, and he learnt the hard way that that one step, that one second, will always be the one that mattered the most.

_What if I'm late again?_

---

---

Next up: Her. A companion drabble, from the other perspective.

All reviews are heartily welcomed!


	2. Her

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to the great Watsuki-sama! All hail the great Watsuki-sama!

A/N: Happy New Year everyone! I had a little block with this chapter – for some strange reason I do male perspectives better than females – so it took a little longer than I expected. Giant THANKS to everyone who reviewed/put me on story/author alert, I really appreciate it! Reviewer responses are below!

Now then, onwards!

**2. Her**

She left on a Thursday.

"It was for the best," she reasoned with herself, "I hate Thursdays…I'm not prepared for… he doesn't get it, he _never_ gets it…we – we need some time off..."

Yet when she stared at her handphone, nestled among pale trembling fingers, the only thing she saw – really _saw_ – was his hand in hers (_with the barest hint of a memorized warmth_)_._ Fingers clenched spasmodically, and she willed for something (_anything, everything_) to happen.

Ready but unprepared; or prepared but unready? Did it even matter when the plunge was taken so long ago?

She left on a Thursday. She thought she knew why.

---

The second time she saw him, he didn't see her.

She was peering out the window, trying to determine if the snow had lightened up enough for her to venture into the outside world when she saw something red out of the corner of her eye. It was red hair. It had seemed deep scarlet in the glow of the park lamps, but now in the day, it was a brilliant red.

She vowed never to forget hair like that.

She watched him from her window, debating if she should approach him. After all, he was just across the street... She watched his shuffling steps, his hands deep in his coat pockets, eyes always on the pavement, and wondered.

Her first thought: _He looks lonely._

Her second thought: _Is he lost?_

Her third thought: _It's cold out there. I wonder-_

But she never managed to finish her third thought as she remembered the scarf he had so kindly "lent" her that cold winter night a few weeks ago. Eyes widening, she rummaged in her closet, triumphantly reemerging a few seconds later with the borrowed scarf in her hand.

Shrugging on her coat haphazardly, she ran out of her apartment, not even bothering to lock the door as she raced down the stairs and out the complex. Breath forming sporadic white mist in front of her, she looked up and down the sidewalk across the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of red.

But she didn't. He was gone, and all that was left was the lavender scarf in her hands.

---

It was hopeless.

She knew it the minute she started. Like with every other thing – including _him_ – she always started optimistically, naïvely hoping that maybe the results would be different than before.

But one thing that life taught her was that Hope had no conscience – he came and went, unaware (_and probably uncaring_) of the heartache caused by his disappearance (_The Great Vanishing Act_). He was that ever-fickle lover; the one with so many other lovers that he could never stay for long, the one that everyone swears is a curse, the one that you let in each and every time he comes knocking on your door.

So as Hope once again tipped his hat and left the apartment, she cleared away the charred remains of what was supposed to be her lunch, desperately wishing that _he_ would come knocking on her door instead. She didn't particularly care if he didn't bring Hope, it didn't matter if the only one he had was Hope's cousin Bitterness; all that mattered was that _he was there_.

She sighed as she moved about the kitchen, looking for instant ramen to fill her stomach. She thought that she had left for good that rainy Thursday, but it seemed as if she had left something behind…

Then she remembered: She had grabbed Sorrow instead of Love that day – they had looked so alike at that time. She had left Love behind in her haste to leave, and she was starting to regret it.

A mirthless chuckle escaped her lips and she thought she might be going insane. After all, personifying emotions – even if it's in your own mind – seemed to be a sure step towards the loony bin.

She was hopeless.

---

She would always remember the day she first met him.

It was one of the worst days of her life.

It was a Monday in December, and she had just turned twenty-one a few weeks ago. That night, she was going out with Okita.

She had known Okita for years. He was a nice boy and she had spent fun times with him – had laughed with him and enjoyed talking to him. They had started dating a couple of months ago, but somehow, she never really regarded him as a boyfriend. A close friend, maybe, at most an older brother.

She awkwardly told him so last Saturday, and after a brief silence that seemed to stretch into eternity, was informed that he felt the same way.

They were going to go back to being close friends after that Monday. "One last date and we'll be over," he had said, half-teasingly, half-seriously.

After he had dropped her off at her apartment complex and kissed her one last time, he bade her goodnight and drove off. She watched him until she couldn't see his taillights anymore, feeling an inexplicable sense of misery well up in her.

That was the last time she ever saw Okita.

He had gotten into a car accident on the way home. Soujirou, his twin brother, called her up the minute he got the news. He said Okita didn't make it to the hospital.

"He loved you, you know," Soujirou had said quietly.

"As a sister, I know, he told me."

"No, he really loved you. More than a sister, more than a close friend, he _loved _you. He was devastated when he found out you didn't feel the same way, but he – that _idiot_ – he said he _understood_."

Numbness struck and she almost lost her grip on the phone.

She remembered that last kiss. She remembered the way his cold hands tenderly cradled her face. She remembered the way his lips pressed against hers in something akin to desperation. And with startling clarity, she remembered the way he looked at her as he pulled away – as if he was trying to _memorise_ her.

(_But can memories be brought to the grave?_)

Hands shaking, she thanked Soujirou and put the phone down.

Before she knew it, she found herself in a hastily put on coat in the park. Feeling lost, she sat down on a swing and tried to regain her bearings.

She broke down instead.

---

Now she stood, pacing the living room, thoughts running rampant in her mind.

It didn't make any sense at all! She had convinced herself that leaving would be the best – why the hell was she regretting it now? She had told herself that she had enough – enough of his glacial silences, scorching glances and _that look_. The one he always gave her when he thought she wasn't looking. Violet tinged with amber, his gaze would be intense but unreadable – and it never failed to confuse her. She found herself guessing and second-guessing his feelings for her far too many times than what was healthy, and everything he did just made her review her guesses over and over again. She just didn't get it!

"Talk to me."

The whisper left her lips and reverberated in the dismal silence of the room. A pity that the only audience she had was the couch and television; the one that needed to hear it the most was absent.

Somehow, she didn't find that surprising at all.

---

---

Next up: Her Best Friend. Conversations in the aftermath. The nameless will finally be named (as if you didn't know already)!

Once again, all reviews are welcomed!

Reviewer Responses:

**policis**: Unnerving? That's a very interesting way to put it – I've never really thought of it that way… but in a way, you're quite right!

**alicemuralice**: Thank you so much for your encouraging praise! I might be changing my styles later, but I hope they will still please you! Hopefully this chapter clears up the mystery of the stranger with the scarf? His identity wasn't really supposed to be hidden, actually, I might try to refine it if I get a chance…


	3. Her Best Friend

Disclaimer: I don't own, so you don't sue!

A/N: Had exams coming up, so I couldn't really find the time to write, sorry about that! Anyway, the flow of this chapter may seem a bit off, since I wrote it in chunks. But I tried my best to put it all together as seamlessly as possible! And also, virtual cookies to all who reviewed! It's really very encouraging.

Onwards!

**3. Her Best Friend**

A jingling of keys at the front door. A creak of unoiled hinges, followed by the muffled 'thump' of a duffel bag on the floor.

"HONEY, I'M HOME!"

Silence.

"Hello? I'm home! Didn't anyone miss me?"

Footsteps.

"Oh, there you are Kenshin! Where's Jou-chan? I remember her saying she'd be spending her weekend here…"

A voice that trailed off into an awkward hush. More footsteps now; urgent padding of feet around the apartment.

"Kenshin, where's Jou-chan?"

Two words: "She left."

Uneasiness mounted. A smile slightly slipped.

"Already? I thought she said she'd be spending the entire day here!"

"She left, Sano. She _left_."

Alarm.

"When?"

"Thursday. Yesterday."

"And you just _let_ her?"

"Yes."

Anger bubbled at his cold, expressionless face.

"Why?"

"She was crying."

Anger exploded, hands fisting in the front of his shirt, hauling him up.

"What did you say?!"

A whisper, "She was crying."

"And you didn't chase after her? You know! You _know_ that she-"

Frustration; exasperation.

"Damn you, Kenshin!"

A punch; a stinging cheek. Muffled footsteps once more, this time heading towards the door instead.

A sudden stop.

"I don't know why you let her go, and honestly, I don't particularly care. It seems like a pretty stupid thing to do, considering that she's the one for you."

A creak of unoiled hinges again.

"But you know what, Kenshin? I was never really sure that you would be the one for her anyway."

The front door slammed shut.

---

Sanosuke Sagara remembered the first time he met Kaoru Kamiya.

She was in a sand pit, sporting a spectacular nosebleed, and had just headbutted one of the three boys ganging up on her. Her blue eyes flashed with defiance and determination as she side-stepped another one of the boys.

He liked the look in her eyes and, never one to pass up a good fight, joined in the fray.

Ten minutes later saw the three boys running away from the sand pit, turning back only to yell about a vengeance that they never intended on exacting.

Sano had a black eye that matched Kaoru's additional split lip perfectly.

"You look _terrible_," he told her bluntly.

She beamed, eyes aglow as she held out her hand, "Kaoru Kamiya."

His grin mirrored hers as he grasped her hand, "Sanosuke Sagara."

He was only twelve then. She was ten.

---

Sano stood outside their co-rented apartment, readying himself to deal with a tremendously depressed girl.

He slid the key into the lock and turned it, steadying himself for the semi-comforting and mostly-awkward conversation that was bound to take place with his best friend.

He took a step into the living room and found himself staring at Kaoru, eating instant ramen.

"You look like _shit_, Jou-chan," he told her, the same way he did twelve years ago.

"Blunt as always, aren't you, Sano?"

She got up to hug him, smiling weakly. He returned the hug, noticing that her eyes were a tint duller than when he left. He squeezed her a little tighter.

"So…what's up, Jou-chan?"

He missed the way she imperceptibly tightened her hold on his shirt before breaking away from the embrace. Walking back towards the ramen bowl on the coffee table, she replied with a deliberate nonchalance, "Oh…the usual things…"

What he didn't miss was the way her eyes darkened.

"Like…?" He pressed, knowing – and hoping - that it was better out than in.

"Like work, lunch with Misao and Megumi, y'know…"

"Anything particularly interesting?"

"No. Nothing at all."

"Anything that I should know about?"

"No."

His frustration came back with a vengeance. "Then why do you have eye bags the size of Megumi's luggage?"

"I do?" She laughed feebly. "I guess all those late nights out with Misao must have-"

"Dammit Kaoru! I stopped by Kenshin's on the way back!"

Her mouth clamped shut.

"I spoke to him and asked him about you, because you said you'd be there today," he ran a hand through his hair agitatedly, "but you weren't, and I asked him why, and he said that you left – you _left_ – and the look on that bastard's face – you should've _seen_ it – I got so pissed off that I punched him and then I came here and I…"

His voice trailed off uneasily at the look on her face. Then, without warning, she looked down, glared at her ramen, and started shoveling it into her mouth, slurping at the soup noisily.

Sano, at a complete loss of what to do, simply shut his mouth, crumpled into a nearby chair, and watched her eat.

Several minutes passed. It seemed like an eternity.

Sano was about to give up when she abruptly set her chopsticks down and looked up at him. He perked up unconsciously.

"And I guess working on the script has contributed to the eye bags as well," she said smoothly, as if her train of thought was never interrupted.

He gaped at her as his brain processed those words.

"The script?"

"Yes, _the script_. Misao bribed and tricked me into writing the script for the drama club's summer production."

"Summer production?"

"Yes, Sano, _summer production_. The summer play that the high school, which I so happen to _work in_, puts up every year?"

"B-but," he spluttered, "you only write _comedies_!"

She shot him a pointed look.

"Did I say or do anything to imply that it _wasn't _a comedy?"

Sano's brain stuttered to a stop for a moment. And then:

This, Sano's brain decided, was perhaps one of the most ironic things that had ever happened to his host.

---

---

Next up: His Hair. Kenshin gets a haircut.

All reviews are 100% welcomed and non-refundable!

Reviewer Responses: 

**kokoronagomu**: Yeah, one of the things that I really want to bring across in this fic is the theme of communication. Miscommunications, or the lack thereof, can really make or break relationships (of any kind) in my opinion. That's what so sad about it all, I guess – what _could_ have been as opposed to what really was.

**gabyhyatt**: Thanks for the review! It's really encouraging!

**flaming-amber**: Oh no, I think the angst might be continuing for a while more… but thank you so much for the compliments! And yeah, I'm trying to make their relationship as real as possible, glad you got that!

**abubi-chan: **Haha, so did you guess her best friend correctly? And I really had a hard time deciding on Okita's death – I really liked him too!

**Jasmine blossom625**: Thanks for the compliment and the review! I'll try to update more frequently, but no promises though, sorry!


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